The Quiet House on Monday
by fanfic n00b
Summary: Moments before the attack that changes their lives, the Longbottoms are already having an imperfect morning.


Alice looked out the window at the picturesque yellowish roofs of Bath. Autumn. Low clouds. A Monday. It had been one year since the deaths of her friends. One year since she herself had come out of hiding.

"Oh, thank you," she croaked as Frank held another goblet of pepper-up potion to her lips.

"I spoke to Alastor. Told him we're not coming in today," he said.

Alice, Frank, and their son Neville had been in bed with a cold for days. Though Alice was pleased to see that her husband and child were recovering faster than she was.

"You looked quite distant just now," Frank said, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed. He felt her forehead, which was covered with a thin sheet of sweat.

"Did I?" she asked, hollowly.

He gave her a reproving look. "I was thinking about them, too," he said.

"Were you?"

"It's November first. Of course I was."

"I know, I was just thinking of Harry. In particular."

"Ah."

"I mean, why couldn't we take him? He and Neville are the same age. They'd be like twins."

"Dumbledore has his reasons."

"I know. I know he does. And I suppose it couldn't have been anyone else in the Order- that reminds me, have you seen Athena? Want to send an owl to Lupin," she said.

"I think she's off hunting again."

"Mmmmmh," she murmured through her stuffed up nose.

"I'll let you know the minute she gets back." He felt her forehead again.

"Anyway, who knew her better than we did? I just know Lily would have- I mean who else would she..."

"Don't," he said, laying his head on her chest. "Harry will be alright."

She looked up at the ceiling. She could feel her heart throbbing against his jaw.

"Still beating?" she asked.

"Still beating," he said. "Thump thump."

Across the room, Neville peeped and yawned.

"Oh, no, we woke him," said Alice.

Frank crossed the room and scooped up his son. "Fever's down. Which is more than I can say for you- don't get up-" he said as she pulled back the duvet.

"I've got to stretch my legs," she said, pitching her weight forward onto her feet. "It's been four days of this."

"Your Mum's gone round the twist, Neville," said Frank conspiratorially into his son's ear. "She hates being stuck inside with nothing to do. Given her way, we'd all three of us live on a boat, or in a yurt-"

"Oh, shut up, you," she said, batting him playfully on the wrist. "Give me my boy."

But there was some truth to his words, she thought as she took Neville into her arms. During the months they'd spent in hiding last year, she had developed far more severe cabin fever than had her husband. Maybe after being raised by the elder Mrs. Longbottom, it was easier for him to hem in his instincts.

Neville was making frustrated little sounds. She knew these noises well; they usually meant a crying session was imminent.

"Will you put the victrola on?" she asked.

Frank nodded and obliged, walking out onto the landing to the table at the top of the stairs.

The victrola had been a wedding gift from Frank's uncle Algernon. At the time, Alice had thought it was a very odd present indeed. But when she'd had Neville, and the sounds of long-ago clarinets and drums had been the only thing that would lull him to sleep, she had decided that a victrola was in fact the best possible gift.

A jazz trumpet drawled soulfully in a minor chord. She swayed back and forth, humming, holding her son's small hand as if dancing the foxtrot. A beatific smile stole across Frank's face as he leaned against the doorframe.

"What?" she asked, smiling herself.

"He looks just like you," he said.

"I think he looks like you."

"No, he's got your face. Just exactly your face. All round and angelic."

"Well, the next one will look like you. Promise," she said.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, shooting her a wicked look.

She bit her lip and averted her eyes. "Your Dad thinks he's Don Juan," she said to Neville.

"Please, dear. Casanova. Much more interesting fellow."

She rolled her eyes and continued rocking back and forth. She could hear Neville's soft breath, still ragged with congestion, but much improved since yesterday. _Relief_, she thought. _Sweet, blessed relief._ A sick two-year-old was in many ways more frightening than a Death Eater in a dark alley. And she could say that from experience.

"I keep expecting him to do something," Frank said.

"Like what?" Alice asked.

"Oh, the usual- make a hairbrush fly across the room, turn the bathwater into milk."

"That's the usual in your family?"

"It's not in yours?"

"No."

"And what did you do? Or don't you remember?"

"I remember. I was seven," she said.

"You were seven?"

"Late bloomer, I know. Mum thought I was a squib. But then I set the house on fire, and that was that."

"You _set the house on fire_?" he repeated, incredulous.

"I didn't want to clean my room."

"Blimey, remind me not to get on your bad side."

Now it was her turn to give him a mischievous look. He sniggered and put his hands on her waist.

"You were always such a quiet thing," he said. "I never heard you talk until our fourth year, and there was that business with the sword, and I thought, Merlin, you don't want to cross her, do you?"

"No, you don't," she said, and he laughed. "Anyway, I think quiet people are better at certain kinds of magic. Occlumency, for one," she said.

"Merlin knows you're thumping good at that."

"Ta, very much," she said, kissing his temple.

"You still feel warm," he said. "I'm going to put the kettle on. Would you rather have lapsang souchong or the other one?"

"The other one," she said.

As she watched him walk out onto the landing again, she remembered how very much she liked the line of his back- the way his shoulders tapered into his hips. An isosceles triangle.

Neville babbled a string of words in time with the music.

"Young man, you are an excellent dance partner," she said. He looked quizzically at her and tried to put his tiny fist in her mouth. She laughed, and he echoed her laugh, as if he was not quite sure what was funny.

Alice thought again, inexplicably, of Lily. How she had looked in that green dress at Alice's wedding. Seventeen and lonely. Before James had finally come to his senses and stopped trying to woo her by teasing her. How Alice had longed with all her heart to tell her that "everything will be alright," but she hadn't, because, at that time, when the world was falling apart, it seemed like such a cruel untruth. And Lily, outspoken and forthright, had always hated untruths.

The victrola had stopped playing. Alice could hear the kettle whining. And whining.

She put Neville on the rug and jogged toward the landing.

"Frank?" she called, opening the door.

And then she heard heavy footfalls on the stairs- two sets? three?

The sneakoscope on the table by the stairs was whirring and flashing.

There wasn't enough time.

She set the imperturbable charm over the bedroom door non-verbally, crossing her wand through the air, sealing it shut. It slammed closed without a sound and she knew no one would hear the soft cries of a small child behind it. She turned in the direction of the approaching commotion, spinning on the ball of her foot-

"EXPELLIARMUS!" cried a young man with straw-colored hair.

The victrola sputtered to life again- a thumping drum line, a mournful banjo, an eerie oboe- and as minutes became hours, Alice was grateful for its muffling effects. Bellatrix did not bother to turn it off.


End file.
